


Dark Inside

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Can be read as slash, Gen, Happy Ending, Hell Fic, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Mild Gore, Psychological Trauma, Torture, i mean come on it's supernatural we're talking about here, or as happy as it can get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of Dean's stay in hell, and his rescue. Warnings for body horror/gore, violence, psychological trauma, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look at me, I'm on a roll! Warnings for body horror/gore, violence, psychological trauma, etc. Also a shit-ton of references.

He crouches in the dark. The tang of metal, of blood, has long since vanished, or he has stopped noticing it. The dark takes it all, in the end. The dark and the talons. They come to him whenever he drops his guard, and sometimes in between. He has to stay alert.

He laughs, cackles. The sound breaks in his throat. Is that what it is, anymore? Laughter? He can’t remember. It scares him, sometimes, but then again, what doesn’t here? It’s all fear, and pain, and so _boring_. It’s become expected, routine. The talons come, they rip, they shred, they _take_ what _isn’t theirs_. It’s unfair. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the monotony, and he is sick of all of it.

He is tired. Broken. Just a useless plaything, once obsessed over by them, but discarded now. He thinks he is bitter. He was once beloved by all, their favorite pastime. Not now. Not anymore. He is useless.

That’s what they told him, still tell him. He wonders if it’s meant to break him further. He wonders if it works. How can he possibly be broken any further? He feels like last year’s trash. Unwanted, disgusting, looked down upon. He is.

He remembers a time when he wasn’t. There was somebody, somebody he loved. Love. He tastes the word in his mouth, rolling it over and over and around his tongue. He spits it out. It feels familiar, but forgotten, like something he once knew. He must have known it at some point. Right? He can’t remember.

They took that away from him. Them, with their words like knives, and knives like the writer’s hand, cutting their elegant phrases into him. Beautiful flowing script, eternally carved into flesh. Immortalized. He remembers that clearly. He wishes he didn’t. He can’t stop them, the memories, they come banging into his head and he claws at his head frantically. No no no no you’re not allowed you’re not allowed I don’t want you here! Why why why he doesn’t like them, he doesn’t like them at all. They come and they make him do things, remember things, that he doesn’t want to remember, can’t remember, or else. That’s what he told himself, promised. He promised!

They come anyway, tearing his mind apart. The memories take their revenge, angry. They have been suppressed, but now they are back, with more force than ever before.

Memories of both the light and the dark, the good and the bad, the loved and the hated. A brother. He had a brother. Was that love? It feels like it should have been, feels right. But they, they took him away. They took his brother away from him! That broke him a little, inside. That was the beginning. They took away his reason to fight.

Before he had been taken here, he and his brother had been content with their lot, although it wasn’t always easy. It was worth it, he remembers thinking that. He had thought the world wasn’t so bad, if they went through it together.

And they had. They had suffered together, triumphed together, loved and lost and felt together. Firsts and lasts, mistakes and consequences, decisions and answers. Come and go, never stay for long enough to get attached, or be recognized. Long, late nights and early morning tiredness, staved off by crappy coffee (but hey, at least it was something hot). Suffer, work, celebrate, rest. Repeat. It was good, or as close as they were going to get to happiness.

That was before. This is now. Now he is here, stuck with the evil. The evil talons that rip and tear and take. They take his memories, take parts of him, and he doesn’t care enough. Or maybe he cares too much. He can’t tell anymore. They took that too. Somewhere along the way they took his sanity with it. That’s a shame. He has a feeling that should upset him. It does, but not for long. He soon forgets.

He waits, shaking. The damned shaking, it never stops. It never stops, and they did that to him. He never knew he could hate anything that much before. There was dislike, and annoyance, and _good-god-just-go-away-now-please-before-I-shoot-something,_ but never hate. Maybe hate, but not this strong. Not true hate, not passionate enough.

Passionate. Is he passionate now? Passionate: having, compelled by, or ruled by intense emotion or strong feeling; fervid. Expressing, showing, or marked by intense or strong feeling; emotional. Intense or vehement, as emotions or feelings. Easily moved to anger; quick-tempered; irascible.

Yeah, he is.

That’s new. He is so used to apathy. It’s easier if he doesn’t care, it means less pain in the long run. That’s all he’s been reduced to. It’s do or die, here. There’s not much he can do, but what he _is_ able to do is fight. However pathetic and weak he may be, he _tries,_ goddamnit, and that’s more than some people can say.

Whenever they come, he puts up a fight. He doesn’t stop struggling until he is forced into submission, until he absolutely must stop or else be subject to entirely new levels of pain. He had tried that, once. _Once_ being the key word.

He refuses to relive _that_ experience, only remembering screams and flashes before shutting down that particular memory. It will come back to bite him in the ass at some point, but that doesn’t matter, because today is the day. Today is the day he will try something different.

He will wait, wait in the dark and silence until they come for him, as they always do. He won’t put up a fight.

The thought made him shudder at first, the very idea of letting go of his integrity, everything that makes him up, abhorrent. But he soon figured it was necessary.

He will go with them, and look for their reactions. They don’t often have them, but if you know where to look, you can see. Their expertly-concealed reactions.

It took him time to learn, and he paid a great price for it, but he is now able to.

So he waits, in the darkness, for the talons and shrieks to come to him.

He doesn’t have to wait for long.

~*~

They creep in as always, silent at first. Then the whispers start. Look at our good boy, isn’t he beautiful? Yes, so beautiful, broken.

He tries not to listen, listen to their poisonous words, but it’s hard. He wants to fall into their delicious lies, the only form of comfort available here. He knows he mustn’t, _can’t,_ break further than he already has, but it’s hard.

He manages not to, this time. He stays silent, not responding, not giving them the satisfaction of seeing a reaction out of him.

They croon in disappointment when he doesn’t rise to their taunts, and then the talons come out to play. They have their fun with him first, gently gliding over sweat-soaked skin. Teasing.

He isn’t able to stop the tremors, though, and they latch onto that with a childlike glee.

Look how he shivers! Isn’t it delightful? Yes, yes, wonderful.

Stop, stop it! He can’t hold back the small plea for help. He knows what is coming next, though, what always comes after this, and he doesn’t think he can handle it.

Other than taking obvious delight in his admission of weakness, they ignore it, pulling him out of the darkness as gently as possible. Always gentle. It drives him mad. He wishes they would just get it over with, stop with this charade of kindness. And that’s all it is, a charade, a cover to hide the ruthlessness he knows is inside them, that makes them up.

They take him out of the all-consuming darkness. At first, when they did this, he had rejoiced. Finally, an end to the madness, the whispers. He was sure he could live, if only he could escape the crushing black.

That’s what he thought. Where they take him, it’s worse than the darkness, in so many ways.

It burns. It strips away his flesh, piece by piece, leaving him behind, begging brokenly for it to stop. They never listen, just cut, rip, and pull at him, both his insides and his emotions. Everything that makes _him_ up.

In the beginning, he had tried not to scream, still whole, unbroken and proud.

They had taken that away from him too, carving him down to his core, and then some. Now he has given in, shown weakness time and time again.

He stopped trying to hold back his screams a long time ago. The first time had let one loose, it somehow escaping past his sealed lips, they mercifully ceased for the day, almost as if they were rewarding him. They had been trying for so long to coax any sound out of him; a scream meant a success, in their books.

That first time, he had lain there, too overcome with shame and hurt to move. He was appalled at how weak he’d been. He vowed to not let it happen again.

And he hadn’t, hadn't broken again, at least not for a while. It was only when they started with the words, those words with their sharp edges cutting into him. Telling lies about his brother, his father, until he started to believe them. What they told him about himself, though, that he already knew.

He already knew the things he’d done, the lies he’d spread, the people he’d hurt. He already knew he was useless, that he needed people more than they needed him, that while he claimed to be doing good, he was actually harming more than helping. They’d lost too many, more than they should have, all because of his mistakes, his failures.

They whispered these things in his ears, all the while cutting into him. Gruesome blood spattered from his open lungs when he tried to speak, wheezing with the effort. The knives sticking out of him like pins from a pincushion quivered where they stood. He coughed out more blood, trying in vain to talk, his voice failing.

His torturer for the day paused in his work, pulling the scalpel out of the bone marrow of his left leg, the tibia. He knew human anatomy as well as, no, _better_ than the back of his hand, now. He had seen his own intestines up close, been given a thorough lecture on the human eyeball, learned about bones and tendons and veins and how they all worked in detail, courtesy of those who kept him here.

His torturer stopped, blessedly, leaning in close to hear what he had to say, just in case it was a surrender of some sort.

And he tried, tried as hard as he possibly could, to make a sound come out. He didn’t even know what he wanted to say, but he knew he had to say something, if that would make it stop.

He couldn’t. No words, no sounds, came out, only rough squeaks of air that huffed through severed vocal chords. A rattling breath fell from his lips, more specks of blood peppering them.

His torturer leaned back, acting disappointed. Maybe it was. It, in particular, seemed to take a sadistic pleasure in its work, above all the others.

It resumed its carving, talking animatedly as it did so. He tuned it out, thoughts instead turning to memories as his only escape.

He stayed there for a while, thinking that if that was insanity, then so be it. It was better than the alternative. He didn’t have the strength left in him to fight it anymore.

That was the second time he’d broken, in mind. They must think he’s given up now; he always fights when they take him, but not this time. He relaxes, lets them take him.

When his pride rears its ugly head, he soothes it by reminding himself that it's all part of the plan. Yes. The plan.

He will let them take him, let them think he's given up. Then he will wait for them to lower their guard, relax their security a little. Because it will happen, even if he is one of their most highly prized possessions. They will become careless, sooner or later. He will make his move then, try his hardest to escape. He isn’t sure what he will do then. Maybe he will look for his brother. If his brother loved him, surely he will be looking for him.

He has to believe that. It is the only thing keeping him going, the thought that his brother is out there. Does he miss him? Has he been looking for him, been losing sleep over him?

As much as he doesn’t want his brother to suffer like that, he’d like to think he cares about him that much.

Maybe he’s found someone else. His traitorous mind tries to manipulate him, weaken him. Maybe he doesn’t want you anymore. Maybe he’ll leave you, for good this time. Then you’ll really be alone. Shut up. Shut up! You’re wrong.

That doesn’t stop his doubts from blossoming in his mind, though. The seeds have already been planted, and their poisonous veins creep into him, sapping his mental strength.

He sinks deeper and deeper into depression, which is good for the act that he’s putting on, but not so good for his health.

They strap him down to the metal rolling cart, this time. Ah. So it’s going to be that kind of day. The kind where they make him come undone from the very beginning. They like to claim that it’s for research, that they are just trying to see what makes him tick, but he knows they take a perverse pleasure in it, however much they may try to hide it. After all, isn’t the entire purpose of this place to cause pain?

Whenever it’s one of these days, he knows not to expect any mercy. They come at him with their knives wickedly glinting in the light of the steadily burning flames. He forces himself not to struggle like he always does, just lies there and waits for it to be over. He has to make them think he’s given up.

When they start, he allows himself to give in, letting go of any semblance of pride he may have had. They carve, he yells in pain. He is ashamed to admit it, but more than a few tears slide down his face.

It is hours and hours of pain, and more than a few instances where he simply can’t handle it and checks out, retreating into his mind, before they finally leave him alone. This time is different, though, because instead of throwing him back into the darkness to fester, they leave him strapped to the hard metal surface, open wounds still pouring blood. He won’t lose consciousness or die, though; somehow they’ve enchanted it so that it’s impossible. He doesn’t know if this is a blessing or a curse most days.

In this instance, he thinks it must be the worst thing to happen to him here yet. After discovering his complete submission, they hadn’t held back, tearing into him with renewed glee.

He is pulled out of his thoughts as one of his wounds, a nasty laceration on his side, twinges painfully, demanding his attention.

He hisses, trying to shift to a more comfortable position, but the restraints hold him too tightly for him to get into much of a better situation.

Soon enough other pains make themselves known. Today definitely wasn’t the worst he's ever had it, but they didn’t exactly go easy on him. At least none of his insides are on the outside. For all of his bravado, he hates that the most. It leaves him feeling violated, like they have seen all that he is and deemed it not worthy, the way they just leave them carelessly hanging out for all to see and judge.

He hates that the most, even more so than the psychological torture he sometimes has to endure. They both leave indelible scars on his psyche, but at least the things they tell him he already knows. When they cut him open and leave him bleeding, he feels beyond exposed, as if everybody now knows how broken and twisted beyond repair he really is.

They leave him there for several days, he thinks. He isn’t sure. Time passes in one slow blur, made all the longer by the loud complaints of his mutilated body. However long it is, it isn’t enough time before they slink back to him, wielding yet more sharp instruments with which to hurt him.

~*~

This continues for a long time, much longer than he ever thought he could bear, until finally, _finally_ he gets an opportunity. The only one in charge of him for the day gets called away, and leaves him alone for a few minutes. That’s all he needs.

The leather bonds, which are weakened from the time he spent rubbing against them, only need a bit of force to snap them completely, and once he has his arms free, he pulls himself into a sitting position. He is still on the metal gurney; they haven’t moved him from it since they first strapped him down, and it is now stained with copious amounts of his blood and other bodily fluids. It’s actually really gross.

He leans forward to loosen the restraints around his feet, which he does as quickly as he can, with his fingers slippery with blood and some of them bent backwards, broken. He knows he doesn’t have much time before they come back in.

His legs collapse underneath him when he slides off, but he manages to throw a hand out and catch himself on the edge of the cart holding their weapons of choice.

Slowly, painstakingly, he heaves himself up to a sort of upright position, leaning heavily on the cart. Bracing himself for the pain that is sure to follow, he pushes himself away from the cart all in one motion, standing on his own two legs for the first time in a long while. A small, delighted laugh finds its way out of him. Huh. He hadn't thought he would ever have heard a laugh, of all things, out of himself here.

But he doesn’t have time to fawn over the fact that he’s standing. He has to get out of this… cell, he now realizes he’s been in, before they come back and discover him like this, not how they’d left him. If they caught him like this, escaping, he’d never get another chance like this again. He’d be on the rack for months for sure.

So, using the wall as a sort of crutch to lean on, he shuffle-steps his way to the rusted, grimy metal door, which was conveniently left open in the demon’s haste to get out. He is overly careful not to touch the door; beyond the fact that it seems like he could tetanus or some other deadly disease simply by looking at it, he knows the second hinge squeaks with even the slightest movement. He knows, because he hears the dreaded sound every morning when someone new comes to take his current torturer’s place. He doesn’t think he will ever be able to hear a squeaky hinge again without flinching or breaking out into a cold sweat.

He limps his way down a dirty, dusty, damp, hallway. He could probably think of more D-words to describe it, too. Dank, decaying, and dark come to mind. So does depressing. And dungeon. Demonic. Okay, this is getting ridiculous. But it’s nice, for once, to busy his mind with something other than pain and anguish.

He can’t help but think of his brother. He quashes out any doubts that try to whisper their insidious opinions in his metaphorical ear, returning victorious, and with a new grim resolve to make it back to him, whatever it takes.

He slips silently out of the hallway into a wide, huge room with a ceiling that towers nearly fifty feet above him. Impressive.

He doesn’t waste time oohing and ahhing over it, though, because that’s for pansies. He checks to make absolutely sure nobody is coming before rushing out an archway on the wall next to him. It leads outside, and hell, if what he sees isn’t _hell_.

It’s a very traditional-looking hell, yes, so it doesn’t surprise him so much as horrify him, and, though he would never admit it, scare the absolute crap out of him.

Poor souls are strung up, looking nearly as bad as he does, gaunt faces with terrified eyes flitting back and forth, yet seeing nothing. Bloody and scarred, their screams will fill his head for many years to come, and lead to many sleepless nights haunted by nightmares.

He will wake up in a cold sweat, panting for breath, yet not quite able to grasp what has him terrified, the dream slipping out of his reach before he has fully awakened. He will regain his memories of his time here bit by bit, a little at a time, so as not to overwhelm him. His mind looks out for him, a self-defense mechanism, and doesn’t traumatize him with all of the memories hitting him at once. At one point, sometime in the future, he will break down, spilling all of his troubles to the one he trusts most, but only for a short amount of time while he slowly rebuilds his defenses. Then the wall will come back up, shielding him from the world and all of the troubles it brings.

He doesn’t know any of this, though. All he knows is that right now, he feels like an enormous dick for leaving everybody else behind to deal with the demons’ wrath.

He forces himself to tear his eyes away from the gruesome, disturbing sight that stretches before him as far as his eye can see, and casts his eyes downwards instead.

The rocky ground below him is littered with human remains. Bones, both old, yellowing ones and freshly discarded ones still stained with blood, and with bits of tendons hanging off them, crunch beneath his feet when he shifts.

He gags and turns away, backing away from the dumping ground as fast as he can. He doesn’t stop until his back slams against a rock wall, causing fragments of the rock and dust to come tumbling down around his head.

He starts to hyperventilate, but forces his feelings, and the contents of his stomach, down, willing himself to think through this. He can’t lose his nerve now; he has to get out of here. He’s seen worse. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Even if it’s not true, it works, dragging his mind back to reality and his pressing need at hand to escape. Determinedly _not_ looking in that direction, he picks his way down the rocky slope that lies in front of him. He is especially careful not to slip on any rocks that might make any noise, alerting his captors to his escape.

They will discover his absence soon enough, but he will take any head start he can get.

The screams of the damned provide the background music to his daring escape, and he feels as if he is starring in an action movie. It’s been so long since he saw a movie of any kind.

That’s it. He makes a resolve to have a movie night with his brother as soon as he gets out of here. That is, if his brother likes to watch movies. It concerns him that he doesn’t know these kinds of things anymore.

While he is preoccupied with thinking of movies he thinks his brother might like, he doesn’t see the sudden dip in the path before him. He twists his ankle and goes down hard, scraping his palms on the rough terrain when he catches himself.

Luckily, the extent of his injuries seems to be limited to that and a swollen ankle, so he isn’t in that much trouble, at least in that respect.

He is in trouble, though, in that he sent more than a few rocks tumbling down the path with his fall. The clamor they make is more than enough to wake the dead, let alone draw the attention of those who kept him here.

He curses, hobbles faster now that he can hear shouts ringing from the direction he came. His heart is pounding, blood rushing through his ears with each step he takes.

His heart stops when the baying of dogs fills the air. The hounds. They’ve brought out the hounds, and now he’s done for.

They are specially trained to hunt things down, to catch scents on the air and bring them back. It doesn’t matter to them what state he’s in when they do it, either.

He half-slides, half-falls down the slope, rushing with careless panic now. His entire world has narrowed to simply the disturbing sounds that ring through the air, his own oxygen-starved lungs struggling to draw some strength from the hot, thin atmosphere, the pound of his footsteps against the treacherous ground. His mind scrabbles to form any kind of coherent thought in his fear.

He doesn’t know where he is heading anymore, just far away from this place. He has long since passed the exit he was planning on using, and is now just running wherever they herd him. He feels like a cornered, frightened animal, chased and hunted, unable to do much more than run.

He can feel his tormented body crying out for help, and knows it won’t be long before it gives up on him entirely. Already his legs are shaking badly with uncontrollable tremors, and he is gasping for air, gradually becoming slower and slower, even with the excess amounts of adrenaline pumping through him.

Eventually his bad leg, the one with the twisted ankle, quits, and he falls to the ground in a heap of limbs. He refuses to give up, though, still doggedly fighting for his freedom. He pulls himself along the ground, all parts of him shaking with exhaustion and an overloaded system, not caring about the trail of blood he leaves behind that they could, no, _will_ follow.

The growls get louder, and he knows they are catching up to him, probably less than half a mile back. He doesn’t stop for anything, even when his body screams protests at him, and his vision begins to black out.

Looks like whatever enchantment was on him, preventing him from passing out, only works while he is in that particular room. He wonders if that means he can die, now, too. He catches himself thinking that he might welcome it, if it comes.

They are getting closer now, he can tell. Their footsteps pound the ground beneath him; he can practically feel the dogs’ hot, putrid breath on the back of his neck.

Yet he still drags himself along, desperate for his liberation. He is pretty sure his insides have been beaten to a pulp at this point, and his limbs will never function properly again. It doesn’t matter, so long as he gets out of this place, gets to see his brother one more time before he dies.

He crawls along another ten feet, at best, before they are upon him. A heavy weight slams into him at full force, teeth snapping, snarling, pushing him flesh against the ground. He collapses, all strength spent, not able to push the dog off him and make his escape. He lays there, defeated, utterly unable to do anything, not even move.

He blinks heavily to rid his eyes of the traitorous tears that form, determined not to show more weakness than he already has in front of them.

The dog on top of him shifts, and something inside of him snaps, put under too much pressure. The wave of pain that follows takes him by surprise, and he isn’t able to hold back the cry that escapes him. He grits his teeth, letting out a small whimper, and shuts his eyes tightly. He will not let them hear him. He will not. They have already taken everything, they will not take what little pride he has managed to regain.

The rest of the party soon follows the first dog, heavy feet trampling the sparse scrub on the side of the worn path.

They, too, are breathing heavily, but only the kind of breathing that comes with a good workout, not the desperate gasping for air he is doing right now. They, unlike him, actually get proper nutrition, and don’t have atrophied muscles or severely out-of-shape lungs. Not to mention the fact that they aren’t seriously injured.

He does have one thing they don’t have, though; the kind of desperation only borne out of having absolutely nothing to lose, and everything to gain.

His inability to move at the present kind of puts a stop to his entire plan, though. There’s not much you can do to further an escape plan when there’s a hundred-pound dog on top of you, breathing down your neck and snarling viciously of you even so much as twitch a finger.

And he doesn’t much feel like getting mauled today, thank you very much. Any other day he would do most anything to get out of here, but he knows it’s a lost cause by now. They are already upon him, circling like vultures about to lay into their prey.

It would be rather difficult to outrun these dogs, he already knew that. He tried anyway, and just look at where that got him. He never should have tried in the first place.

Where are those thoughts coming from? Certainly not him. They must be working their tricks on him. He had heard they could do that, manipulate others’ minds, but thankfully, had never had it done to him, until now.

While he puzzles out his confused thoughts, they take action, swooping in to gather him up off the ground. He goes with them, still unsure where he stands on this.

They put on a show of gently dusting him off and fretting over the new wounds he gave himself, perhaps hoping to fool him in his dazed state.

It doesn’t work. He knows, deep inside, that these are the ones who hurt him, again and again, without care. It has been branded deep into his soul, and he is sure he will never forget their hideous faces or the words they whisper to him in the dead of the night. He will never forget his time spent here, they have made sure of that.

He isn’t fooled, but for some unknown reason he goes along with them, back to his own personal hell, willingly. Maybe it is their insidious, simpering words and lies, or perhaps some deep-rooted self-preservation instinct inside of him, wired to save him the least amount of pain.

Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter, because internally, he is in a state of complete disbelief, unable to process anything. His body is simply shutting down from the sheer stress, protecting itself by shutting out the world.

When he collapses, physical systems shutting down, they catch him with practiced ease, simply carrying him back. He lays in their arms like a ragdoll, limp and unfeeling, until finally, blessedly, he passes out, for the first time in months.

He falls into the blackness willingly, and knows no more.

~*~

He wakes up to the never-ending blackness, and feels utter despair fill his heart. He falls back into insanity instead of facing the horrors that await him.

~*~

The weeks turn into months turn into years turn into decades, until he can’t tell what is what anymore. How long he’s been here. It’s all irrelevant. Here, there is only pain and fire. Everything is all topsy-turvy, nothing makes sense anymore. There is only pain, screaming, and more pain. Sometimes he gets special visitors. They are new people, far more experienced at this than you could imagine.

He dreads those days, can barely handle the ‘normal’ ones, let alone a trained specialist who takes him apart and stitches him back together.

He has lost every last shred of anything he ever was, everything that made him up. He has been transformed into a snarling beast, running on pure base instinct.

When they offer him a way out, of course he takes it. If the way out of the pain involves taking up the knife himself, becoming one of them, so be it. The smallest part of him, all that is left of what he once was, protests, but it is ignored in favor of the part of him pleading to get off the rack.

He becomes one of them, and though he hates himself for it, he can’t seem to stop. There is one instance where he slacks off, his conscience winning over temporarily, but when they threaten to throw him back in, he buries himself in his work, attacking others with zeal. He forgets all but the barest memories, his brother hidden deep in his mind.

He can’t stop, doesn’t stop.

He forgets who he is.


	2. Chapter 2

It is nearly a decade later that something changes. People are whispering, talking of an invading force. Here? Who would possibly want to invade here? You’d have to be mad to come here willingly. They’re all mad here. He is mad, they are mad, the souls he tortures are driven mad.

He has gotten highly skilled at his job by now. He is a master with a knife, can cut anybody up six ways from Sunday, take them apart nearly as well as the experts by now. He is especially commended for his creativity. Before, it was boring. Cut, rip, tear, repeat. Day after day after day after day, it’s all so BORING. It was a wonder nobody had thought to do something more, something different, after spending so much time in monotony.

He had come up with many of the new ideas they use now, like live wires laced through the nervous system. Hallucinogens. Water torture. And his crowning glory, the injection. Not just any injection, either. He informs the man on his table of all of this as he prepares the syringe.

He likes to watch the fear in their eyes manifest as they realize exactly what he is about to do. It’s always his favorite part.

This one is a little slow, though, and doesn’t catch on, even as he fills the syringe with acid. It’s really no wonder he’s here, if he’s that stupid. Honestly, couldn’t they have given him one that was a little more _exciting_?

The man’s eyes widen, _finally_ , as he approaches him with the syringe held aloft, almost gloatingly. He starts to struggle to get out of the bonds that hold him fast. He doesn’t worry, because he tied the man down himself. There’s no way he’s ever getting out of them.

The one thing he doesn’t like, has never liked, are the sounds they make during any of his sessions. That’s why he makes sure they can’t say anything, are only able to grunt at best, because of the crude gags he forces into their mouths.

The man currently on his rack, he thinks he was a serial killer, maybe, starts to make distressed noises. The sounds of the man’s struggling increase in both urgency and volume as he draws nearer and plunges the needle into the man’s arm. He makes sure that the corrosive substance is coursing through his system, fast enough do that he feels it eating away at him everywhere, but not so fast that that it might burn out of his system quickly.

Once he is satisfied, he leans back, crosses his arms over his chest, and allows a pleased, slightly sadistic grin to come over his face.

The serial killer’s face is contorting into all sorts of pleasing expressions, ones of extreme agony and suffering.

He loves this.

He loves seeing the tortured reduced to this, nothing more than action and reaction, all inhibitions gone in the heat of the moment. He is sure that this man would do anything he asked right now, if it meant it could save him from the pain.

It isn’t too long before the acid starts to exit his system, and he begins to prepare the next horror that he will bestow upon this man.

He has scarcely turned around, back to the cart, when he hears a large commotion outside his door. He growls in annoyance at this interruption, which is disturbing him and his charge. Now the fool on his rack might actually think there is some hope for him!

He stalks over to the heavy metal door and yanks it open, glaring out at whoever might happen to be passing at this moment.

All he sees is a small scuffle a little ways down the hall, probably just an argument between two of them. He rolls his eyes and slams the door shut, hoping to let them know of his annoyance. Maybe they’ll knock it off. Everybody knows he is a very powerful enemy to make.

He is glad for his infamy; it means that he doesn’t have to get too close to anybody, when they are all scared stiff of him. It is nice to know that he won’t be bothered when he is working, unless it is by some useless drone delivering a message that has absolutely no importance to him.

He stalks back to the man, who now has silent tears streaming down his face, but strangely enough, this doesn’t bring him any joy, for once. He feels empty and hollow, but for the rage coursing through him.

Feeling as if he is in a dream, observing himself yet not able to control any of his actions, he quickly grabs a random knife off the cart and goes to work on the killer, carving and slicing with reckless abandon. He watches with horror as his own face curls into the most ruthless snarl he could ever imagine. He has become a monster, in every sense of the word.

He doesn’t even hear it, so absorbed is he in his work, when the commotion grows louder just outside his door, screams renting the air now. The smell of burning drifts through the halls, and shrieks of agony carry on the wind.

The fight is not ten feet away by now, right under his nose, and still he doesn’t turn his attention away from the gruesome sight in front of him.

He tried to ignore it as it got closer and closer, but when his door is thrown open, crashing against the wall with a bang, he reluctantly turns around, not at all eager to face what must be a threat.

He snarls, adjusting his grip on the knife, and prepares to address the stranger. His words die in his throat, however, as soon as he lays eyes on him.

His eyes feel like they are burning when he looks at him, so great the glow the being gives off is. He falls to his knees, shielding his face from the being, not sure if he is protecting his face from the stranger or hiding it in his shame at what he has become.

He stays there, eyes shut tightly, cowering before the being, unsure why he is unable to face this creature. He knows he is brave; hell, he faced over thirty years of torture before giving to their demands, but for some reason, his very core quivers before this one, non-threatening being.

He flinches violently when the stranger steps forward and holds out a hand towards him.

Upon seeing him, so broken and untrusting that he is not even able to prevent himself from flinching, the being backs away, holding up his hands in a non-threatening gesture.

When he feels the intensity of the glow abate slightly, he risks a peek at the thing, opening one eye and lowering the arm thrown across his face slightly.

The being , now that he is not shining so brightly that he is unable to be looked at, has a vaguely humanoid figure, which is more than can be said for most of those he works with. He has two arms, two legs, a head where it should be, all of the usual stuff. He just has something extra: two enormous, shimmering wings arch out of his back. They wouldn’t even fit in the room if the being wasn’t pulling them in close to his body.

They shimmer with the same kind of light the being is giving off, sturdy feathers shifting and rustling, it seems as if of their own accord.

The being has a strange expression on his face; he can’t tell what it’s thinking. He cautiously stands up, still defensively holding the knife, even though he’s pretty sure it wouldn’t do anything, what with the sheer _power_ oozing out of this thing. Old habits die hard, though, and he can’t bring himself to put it down.

He finds himself demanding to know who the being is, what it is. He is proud when his voice betrays none of the deep fear and dread he is feeling inside.

The stranger cocks his head, looking at him curiously, eyes narrowed. When he speaks, his voice rings throughout the entire place, filled with unimaginable power.

“Dean Winchester.”

That’s his name! He had forgotten it, after such a long time spent here. Dean Winchester is no more, however; he has been cut away at for decades until he is changed into something new, forged in the fires of hell into a weapon they can wield.

The being steps forward again, a stern expression on his face. “We are here to get you out.”

We? There are _more_ of them? And they’re apparently here to get him out. He laughs bitterly at that. He knows that escape from this place is impossible, unless you are one of the higher-ups. And even then, he doesn’t necessarily _want_ to get out. Life is good here, now that he’s given in, taken up the knife himself. What an asshole, presuming things like that. The stranger doesn’t know anything about him, knows nothing of what he has had to suffer through in his hellish life.

He doesn’t realize he’s said all of that out loud until the being replies. “My garrison was sent here on a mission from God. We are to extract the Righteous Man.” When he doesn’t reply, the stranger steps a little closer. “You don’t think you deserve to be saved.” It’s a statement, not a question.

He thinks of all that he’s done during his stay here. No, he doesn’t deserve to be saved. There are plenty of other innocent people here, all better people than him. He’s broken, useless. The only thing he’s good for is a tool, a blunt instrument to use against others.

This time he knows he didn’t say any of that out loud, but somehow the being is able to hear him anyway, or perhaps read his face, because he replies.

“Of course not. You are just as worthy of salvation, perhaps even more so than everybody else.” He still doesn’t believe the creature. Why should he? A random stranger shows up, spouting nonsense about salvation and worthiness, he’s not inclined to believe him. Good things like this just don’t happen, and even if they did, they definitely wouldn’t happen to _him_.

The creature seems thoroughly exasperated now, which is an odd thing to see on its face. “I am an angel of the Lord.” With that, he spreads his wings as far as they can go in the small confined space. He is terrifying in that moment, eyes flashing dangerously, wings arching assertively above him to display his power.

Dean shrinks back, knowing intrinsically that this creature, this creature is to be feared. This creature is a warrior.

“Stay back!” he snarls, brandishing his knife. He doesn’t know how he’s still standing, the power emanating from this thing is so great. He just knows, somewhere deep inside, that he can’t give in again.

The angel’s expression doesn’t change. He darts forward unexpectedly, and Dean is so surprised he nearly drops the knife. After years of practice, though, it is practically an extension of him, and he dodges to the left, slashing out wildly.

The angel is quick, however, and avoids the blow, managing to catch one of Dean’s arms in mid-strike. After that, the angel makes quick, almost clinical, work of disarming and rendering him immobile.

It's as if the hell is literally burned out of him where the angel touches. 

“Enough!” The command combined with the pain is enough to shock Dean into submission. He is tired, so tired. All at once, the fight drains out of him, and he can feel himself shaking.

The angel flares his wings and prepares to fly. However, their brief fight has drawn unwanted attention, and the heavy door squeals on its hinges as it's kicked open. 

The head honcho, Dean's primary torturer, Alastair, bursts into the room just as they take flight, Castiel holding him tightly. 

They weave expertly through hordes of demons and angels alike, Dean awed at the sight of so many fighting. This is all for him?

As if he jinxed it, a strong voice rings out. "Dean Winchester has been saved! Fall back!"

Dean watches, fascinated, as the glowing forms shoot upwards, powerful wings beating with the force of ten thousand thunderstorms. 

It's too much, and as much as Dean doesn't trust Castiel, he still can't stop himself from flinching away into him. The angel merely tightens his grip, protective of his charge, and flies on.

~*~

What seems like only minutes later is actually hours, and with a sudden _push_ , they are back on Earth, standing in a forest. Well, Castiel is standing; Dean finds himself still held in the arms of the angel. 

Like that super depressing song, Dean thinks, and laughs. The sound surprises him. He feels remarkably better, now that he is away from the blood and the stench of death that permeates the air in hell. 

He can't tell if his good mood is genuine, or just brought on by trauma and he is about two seconds away from bursting into unmanly sobs.

Castiel still hasn't put him down, though, and he shifts, uncomfortable with the lack of personal space.

When he moves, though, he catches sight of his arms. Their state leads to a closer inspection of all of his limbs.

They aren’t whole, unblemished, like he almost expected them to be. But then, when has anything gone okay for Dean lately? It’s a miracle this rescue even happened at all, and who is he to complain?

But now his thoughts are straying dangerously close to a chick-flick moment, and he needs to be put down before he embarrasses himself. “You can put me down now.” He didn’t _mean_ to sound so irritated.

The angel looks confused. “But you are hurt.”

“Yeah, what else is new? I can deal with it.”

“That would not be wise. These aren’t injuries of your body; your soul has been scarred, which cannot be fixed so easily.”

His soul? “This is my soul? I would be expected it to look, I dunno, more glow-y.”

“Souls take on whichever form they are expected to have. Therefore, since you expected to have a body in Perdition, your soul changed to look like it.”

That makes sense. “But that doesn’t answer why you can’t put me down, if these can’t be healed.”

“My grace is helping speed up the process, and it is more effective at a close range.”

Dean huffs. “Look, I appreciate it, but you really don’t need to do this for me, especially not if I'm… feeding off of you or whatever.”

Castiel just gives him an odd, vaguely disapproving look, as if he can’t believe what Dean is saying. “You speak so lowly of yourself, and fail to see your true worth. Dean, as much as you may not believe it, you are important, and valued.”

Dean just shrugs. Then he notices the scars on his soul-body seem to be fading, however slow it may be. Heck, with even with just twenty more minutes of this weird cuddle-thing they’ve got going on, they might disappear completely! For the first time in what feels like forever, Dean feels hopeful, like he might make it out of this intact.

But then Castiel moves, putting his soul gently on the ground. Dean notices they are next to a mound of earth with a crudely-built cross at one end. A grave. His grave?

Dean feels the loss of contact acutely. It’s like having a warm blanket ripped from you right when you wake up.

Now Castiel is moving, though, and Dean feels a shock in his chest, a thumping starting. His heart, his _actual_ heart. He is confused, then, when he remains a soul outside his body.

“Cas? Did you do that?” He doesn’t even realize he's been mentally shortening the angel’s name until he says it aloud. Castiel doesn’t notice, though, or ignores it.

“Yes, I have restored your body. You will need it for what is coming next. And unfortunately, your soul has reached its limit. I cannot heal it anymore. The rest will go away with time.”

Dean tries not to show his disappointment. Then something else the angel said caught his attention. “Wait, ‘what’s coming next’?”

“Yes. Things are changing, shifting, and soon they will erupt. You need to be ready for when that happens.”

Castiel makes a motion with his hands and everything goes black.

~*~

Dean wakes up coughing in the dark. He clears his throat. “Help.” It comes out hoarse and weak. He tries again. “Help.”

He scrambles to find his lighter, flicking it on only to see he is inside a wooden coffin. It takes a lot of effort, but finally he manages to break the coffin and claw his way out of the grave.

Outside, it looks like a bomb went off. Trees are downed everywhere, creating a circle around his grave. He doesn’t even want to think about what could be powerful enough to cause that.

He starts off down a dusty road, searching for any sign of people. He needs to find Sam, and Bobby. He has the feeling that something huge is coming.

~*~

He and Bobby are standing in a barn, armed to the teeth and ready to confront anything that might walk through that door. At least, that’s what Dean keeps telling himself.

When the creature introduces himself, Dean feels a faint pang of recognition. But that’s impossible, as he’s sure he’s never met him before.

“So why’d you do it?” he asks.

“Because we have work for you.”


End file.
